The lukewarm soup tasted of nothing, which was exactly what Jack expected. He stirred the grey liquid in his bowl, the plastic spoon scraping against the cheap ceramic with a sound that felt as colorless as the meal. Across the long, sterile table of the State Orphanage #17 cafeteria, Mike was practically vibrating with an energy that threatened to spill his own soup.
"Can you believe it's today? In three hours, Jack. Three hours and we'll be Awakeners," Mike said, his voice a conspiratorial whisper that was still too loud. "I'm telling you, I've got a feeling. My grandfather was a C-rank Warrior. It's in the blood. I'm hoping for at least a D-rank Strength talent. That's all I need to get into a decent guild. Maybe even the Iron Claws. Could you imagine?"
"Maybe," Jack replied. It was his favorite word. It was a shield. It promised nothing and cost nothing. It was the color grey in word form.
"Maybe? Come on! You've gotta have a hope, right? What do you want? Mage, right? You're always top of the class in System Theory."
"We'll see," Jack said, taking a sip of the soup. It was warm. That was its only notable quality.
He looked at Mike, at the undisguised hope shining in his friend's eyes. Asset: Mike. Function: Social Camouflage, Unwitting Information Source, Normalcy Anchor. Acquisition Date: Three years ago. Maintenance Cost: Minimal. Requires occasional feigned interest and agreement. A very efficient tool.
Jack's gaze drifted across the cafeteria. He didn't see teenagers. He saw a collection of poorly concealed data points. He saw a boy named David nervously tapping his fingers, a clear sign of anxiety; his low self-esteem would make him an easy follower. He saw a girl named Sarah laughing too loudly, a desperate performance for social validation; her need for approval was a glaring weakness. He saw two hundred orphans, two hundred sheep waiting for the System to tell them if they were valuable or worthless. They called it the Awakening. Jack knew it for what it was: a lottery the sheep thought was random. It wasn't random. It was a sorting mechanism. And today, he would finally be sorted.
His own anticipation was a cold, quiet thing, a stark contrast to the buzzing excitement around him. He felt no hope, no fear. He felt only the quiet thrill of a craftsman about to be handed a new set of tools. For fifteen years he had operated with his hands. Soon, he would have scalpels.
The auditorium hummed with the oppressive silence of a holy site. The air was dry and smelled of ozone and industrial cleaner. On the stage, two officials from the Hunter Bureau stood like statues, their faces impassive. Between them, a three-foot-tall crystal pulsed with a soft, blue light. The Awakening Seal. The instrument of fate.
One by one, the fifteen-year-olds were called. The ritual was a two-step process. First, the Job, the foundation of their new life. Then, the Talent, the cosmic lottery that would define their worth.
"Sarah Kane!"
The girl who had laughed too loudly now looked like she was about to be sick. She placed a trembling hand on the crystal. It flared with a gentle, white light, and an ethereal image of a staff appeared above her head for a moment. A soft, female voice, the System's announcer, echoed through the hall.
"Class: Healer."
A wave of relief washed over Sarah's face. A support class. Valuable. Safe. The Bureau official motioned for her to keep her hand on the crystal. The second phase began. The white light swirled, then sharpened into a brilliant green.
[Talent: Accelerated Healing (C-Rank)]
A wave of gasps and envious whispers washed over the room. The girl burst into tears, this time of pure, unadulterated joy. A Healer with a C-rank healing talent. Her life had been rewritten in a single moment.
The procession continued. A Warrior with an F-rank talent. An Archer with a D-rank. The emotional whiplash in the room was palpable.
"Mike Ryland!"
Jack watched his friend walk to the stage. Mike placed his hand on the crystal. A solid, ghostly sword materialized above him.
"Class: Warrior."
Mike's face lit up. It was exactly what he wanted. He kept his hand on the crystal, his eyes squeezed shut in a prayer. The light shifted, turning a dull, earthy brown.
[Talent: Minor Strength Boost (F-Rank)]
The light in Mike's eyes dimmed. A Warrior with a bottom-tier talent. He was destined for a life as a porter, or maybe a low-level guard in a third-rate guild if he got lucky.
"Jack Vernon!"
It was his turn. He kept his head down, his gait deliberately average. The mask had to be perfect. He placed his hand on the cold surface of the Awakening Seal.
A cool energy flowed into him. A complex, arcane symbol, like a page from a forgotten grimoire, flickered into existence above his head.
"Class: Mage."
Perfect. The class of an intellectual. It fit his cover. He felt the mana channels in his body open, a faint tingle like pins and needles. He kept his hand steady for the second reveal. The light shifted, turning into a calm, unremarkable blue.
[Talent: Mana Circulation (E-Rank)]
[Skill: Mana Bolt (F-Rank)]
A murmur went through the crowd. E-rank. Not a failure, but not a success. A support mage with a mediocre talent. Forgettable. The very definition of average. One of the Bureau officials gave a slight, dismissive nod. Jack was categorized. Filed away. He was exactly what he wanted to be: invisible.
He performed a slight frown of disappointment, just enough to be convincing, and turned to leave the stage.
Then he felt it.
It was not a light. It was a coldness. A second shift, deep in the core of his soul, a silent and invasive rewriting of his code that had no visible effect. It was a feeling of something ancient and hollow settling into a space he didn't know he had.
A single line of text flickered at the very bottom of his vision, a different color from the public display. It was a faint, ghostly white, and it was visible only to him.
[You have acquired an unranked, immutable talent: Dungeon Creation.]
He didn't react. His face remained a perfect mask of mild disappointment. But inside, a cold, predatory smile began to form. The tool he had been given was not a scalpel. It was a factory. An entire assembly line.
As he walked back to his seat, a new sensation began. A faint itch crawled up his spine, a low hum that vibrated just at the edge of his hearing. It was a familiar feeling, one he had suppressed for the past few weeks in anticipation of this day. The static. The cognitive dissonance of a predator forced to wear a herbivore's skin for too long. The clock was ticking. The maintenance schedule would soon be due.
Mike gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as he sat down. "Hey, E-rank is okay. You'll make a decent support mage. We could even party up, you know?"
Jack just nodded, his eyes locked on the stage as the last of the sheep were sorted. The itch intensified, a faint but insistent burn now.
They see a sheep, he thought, the smile finally touching the corners of his mind. The System has raised me as a wolf.
The static in his head suddenly sharpened, coalescing from a dull hum into a single, piercing needle of thought. It was not his own. It was a push, a demand from the deepest, oldest part of him, now connected to the power thrumming in his soul. A new window, as ghostly white as the last, flickered into existence in his vision. It was not a notification. It was an invoice.
[Dungeon Creation requires a foundation. A sacrifice is needed to anchor the first stone.]